I came across my old summer camp trunk in the attic.
Inside were thick folders, tied with sky-blue velvet ribbons.
I knew what lay within:
pencil crayon drawings of my blond cocker spaniel, seagulls at the beach, ducks on the pond, and my younger brother in his Mountie costume.
But my favorites were the paper doll fashions–
wedding gowns painted in soft watercolor, headdresses with sunbursts and roses, crowns and tiaras, and Della Robbia wreaths laden with flowers and fruit.
I made them on rainy Sunday afternoons.
They were shown to no one.
I wasn’t waiting for praise or advice.
The making was enough.
Each dress belonged to an imagined life I carried quietly, as tenderly as a child carries a small secret.
Years later I showed them to my daughters.
Already, they were better artists than I had ever been.
They smiled, admired them, but declined to add another dress to the collection.
Perhaps, one day, a grandchild will untie the blue ribbons,
The air splinters like glass– I perch on a gnarled limb, a solitary watcher in the fractured gloom of night, where bitter winds gnash at a starless sky.
Below, the earth trembles with despair, its pulse a staccato of sorrow, as the cacophony of man’s ruin echoes through my ancient eyes. I, the silent sentinel of twilight, bear witness to hearts ensnared in an endless dispute.
I drift through fractured hours, each moment a shard of broken light, and in the rustle of dying leaves I hear the desperate murmur of questions scraping at the marrow of human intent.
I long for a guiding voice– a call as steady and resolute as my own nocturnal hymn– that might reach the steely hearts of our world’s posturing masters, whose empty grandstanding leaves their people trembling at the ominous specter of what is to come.
Yet wisdom is never tender; it is honed by the relentless edges of despair, etched in the scars of time and the silent ache of the dark. I, who have seen centuries unfold beneath these ageless stars, offer my muted counsel to the chaos below.
I am afraid, yet I remain–a keeper of ancient truth– praying that, in the echo of my solemn hoots, a spark of reason my be kindled. May their voices rise, clear and fierce as the cry of the night owl, to lead us from the tempest and transform shattered hours into the promise of a new dawn.
I once believed in fairy tales, in love so vast, so bright, A love that soared on golden wings and lit the darkest night. I dreamed of hands that knew my own, of hearts that beat the same, Of whispered vows in starlit hush, of love that burned like flame.
Yet time wove shadows in my path, and love became a ghost, A wistful wish, a fleeting dream, a ship without a coast. I wandered through the quiet years, through echoes soft and thin, Not knowing love was biding time, still waiting to begin.
And then—you came, like summer rain, like dawn upon the sea, A love so deep, so fierce, so true, it woke the soul in me. No fleeting spark, no passing storm, no whisper in the air, But something strong as ancient oaks, as certain as a prayer.
The love of ballads, sonnets bright, the love that poets weave, The love of kings and wayard knights, of hearts that won’t deceive. A love where laughter, wild and free, is laced with tender sighs, Where every glance is poetry, where longing never dies.
So here we stand, with hands entwined, where fate and dreams align, A love reborn, a tale retold—forever yours and mine. No more a wish, no more a ghost, no more a fleeting glance, But love, at last, as it should be—our fated, timeless dance.
I have found love again! I am so grateful for each and every glorious moment we spend together!
On the pond where frost wove its glimmering thread, Round and round on the ice, so much laughter was spread. My father on one side, my mother’s warm hand, Together we skated through winter’s command.
The cold held no power, our joy burned so bright, Each smile a lantern in the soft fading light. My father, a hockey fan quick on his feet, My mother, a skater whose grace was complete.
Their spirit of wonder still dances in me, Like ripples of moonlight on a shimmering sea. Though time has now carried their voices away, Their love is a gift I unwrap every day.
As the year softly closes, I cherish the thought, Of the laughter and lessons their living had taught. I hope that my children will carry their flame, And feel in their hearts that same joyous refrain!
A toast to the the beauty of years that have passed, To moments of love that forever will last. On this last day of the year, as memories shine, I feel their hands guiding, still holding to mine.
My best wishes to you for 2025! Happy New Year! ❤️
In the dappled light of the forest’s edge, He struts, wary, along the bramble’s ledge. His ruby throat, a beacon of flame, Bobs and flickers, untamed, untamed.
Eyes wide with a primal, ancient fear, Each rustle of leaves, each sound draws near. A breeze, a shadow – he freezes, tense, A sentinel poised by a fragile fence.
Down the road, domestic birds parade, Fat and oblivious, in sun-spotted shade. Their fates are sealed, their end well-known, But his is a dance in the wild alone.
Will he endure the frost-kissed nights, And coyotes’ teeth that gleam in moonlight? Or will his feathers scatter, a fleeting trace, Of a noble life in a ruthless place?
No table awaits his wary kind, No cranberry sauce, no sage entwined. Yet the woods hold stories cruel and raw, Where survival bends to nature’s law.
I spied this wild turkey standing alone on my walk today. I have always seen him with his mate and worry that the coyotes may have taken her from him. I hope he can find a good hiding spot in the woods tonight!
At three, my eyes open to the soft night’s call, A distant train’s echo, faint engines drone, Murmur of creatures, house timbers groan, And I’m caught in a web spun silent and small.
Yet once woken, the night takes me far- To warm tropic waters, to sunlit sands, To brushstroke dreams with my eager hands, Where crimson red and blue glow like a star.
I drift in dances on shores unknown, Beneath heavens that pierce the shadowed dome, And revel with loved ones near the old home, By the lake where moonlight and memories are sewn.
Then the hour fades; I’m lulled once more, Into soft slumber’s waiting door, Wrapped in the hush of dreams restored.
At three o’clock in the morning, I resist the temptation to turn on the light to read or sew. Rather, I lie very still and the hour overcomes me in the sweetest, best possible way.
The feeling from the song in Only Murders in the Building, performed by Meryl Streep, is aligned with how I feel during that magical hour.
Within these walls, my heart does rest, A haven wrought with love’s own crest. The strokes of brush on canvas bare, Birds in flight and animals fair. Vermont’s wild lands in oil unfold, Sunset’s fire, winter’s cold.
Here roses bloom in vases old, Ceramic treasure finely scrolled. Their petals whisper of the past, Of father’s gifts – how time does last. And glass that gleams, my mother’s hand, In paperweights from foreign lands.
On shelves, the books of poets dwell, Their words, like spells, my soul compels. Photographs with faces dear, In every frame, I hold them near. This is my world, a soft embrace, Where every corner finds its place.
Some speak of spaces clean and bare, Of lives unbound by things they wear. Yet here, amidst this cherished cache, I find my peace and hold it fast. For in each token, vase, or frame, Life’s rich fabric, for now remains.
So let the world of minimal claim, Their rooms untouched by love’s sweet flame. For in my charming abode, I see, The beauty that belongs to me.
I have just started giving my special treasures to my daughters for their own homes. I love seeing how my belongings look surrounded by completely different color and decorating schemes, and, my daughters’ own art and objects of affection.
In the oak beside my house, there lived three sprites, Three mischievous squirrels, with morning delights. At six they’d start, with a thump and a leap, On my bedroom roof, disturbing my sleep.
They’d dig up my tulips, so eager and keen, Gnaw at my porch, where they often were seen. Cracked acorns scattered, my yard was their feast, These furry intruders, to say the least.
I grumbled and muttered, “A nuisance, no doubt, These bothersome squirrels I can do without.” Yet, one fateful day, my neighbors took heed, They chopped down the oak, the squirrels left – Godspeed!
No more early wakes, no more tulips dug, No gnawing on wood, no playful bug. But silence grew heavy, the mornings so still, I found myself missing their antics and thrills.
Now I wonder, where did they roam? These mischievous friends, onto other homes. Though I complained and wished them away, I long for their presence at the break of day.
Be careful for what you wish for! After the squirrels left, a groundhog moved into my backyard – a much bigger nuisance than the squirrels ever were.
Satin & Sand 